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A strange electricity ran through us all. The card-players had thrown down their cards just as the plumber was about to trump an ace. The others had tossed aside their papers and laid down their cigarettes. The Turco "Muley Hafid" he was called, because those were the only words of his any one could understand who had been deploying imaginary troops, with the aid of matches, upon the counterpane, as though he were a sick child playing with leaden soldiers, recognised the tune, and in default of words began to beat time with a soup spoon. Up and down the passage way between the beds marched the fife and drum; louder beat the drum, more piercing grew the fife. What delirious joy-of-battle, what poignant cries of anguish, has not that immortal music both stirred and soothed! To what supremacy of effort has it not incited? It has succoured dying men with its viaticum. It has brought fire to glazing eyes. It has exalted men a little higher than the angels, it has won the angels to the side of men: Tout est soldat pour vous combattre: S'ils tombent, nos jeunes héros, La terre en produit de nouveaux Contre vous tout prêts
Mon ame est l'arbre ou tous les soirs, comme elles, De blancs essaims de folles visions Tombent des cieux, en palpitant des ailes, Pour s'envoler des les premiers rayons. Finally, the effort to detach poetry from the inner world and make it an expression of outer things, is incompatible with its musical character.
The drawback to a migratory existence, however, is the fact that, as a French saying has put it, Ceux qui se refusent les pensees serieuses tombent dans les idees noires. These people are surprised to find as the years go by that the futile amusements to which they have devoted themselves do not fill to their satisfaction all the hours of a lifetime.
«Mais toutes ces matières qui tombent, ne sont pas perdues pour les montagnes; il s'en perd même bien peu. Elles s'arrêtent au pied des rochers dont elles sont successivement détachées; et l
I found another poem his "Amsterdam." Les maisons pointues ont l'air de pencher. On dirait Qu'elles tombent. Les mâts des vaisseaux qui s'embrouillent Dans le ciel sont penchés comme des branches sèches Au milieu de verdure, de raye, de rouille, De harengs saurs, de peaux de moutons et de bouille.
Will they fight? I believe it. Alas, 'tis ephemeral folly, Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pictures, Statues, and antique gems, indeed: and yet indeed too, Yet methought, in broad day did I dream, tell it not in St. James's, Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church! yet did I, waking, Dream of a cadence that sings, Si tombent nos jeunes héros, la Terre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prêts
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